


Unfinished Business

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-26
Updated: 2003-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-06 13:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: WARNINGS: Sorrow, tears, grief, romance; a few adult words. Jack/SaraSPOILERS: Small one for Learning CurveSUMMARY: Sara calls Jack for help (set in season 3)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Unfinished Business

"Jack, I need you to come over here. It's Buddy."

Jack O'Neill was weary. He'd been off planet for six long, grueling days, he was tired and sore, hurting all over, and in need of a week's worth of sleep. He didn't need another crisis dropped in his lap.

But that was Sara's voice on his answering machine.

He dialed her number, hoped it wasn't too late to be calling. Her voice sounded sleepy as she answered, "Hello."

"Ah, hi, it's me, Jack. I'm sorry, I know it's late but I just got in and got your message," he said in a rush of explanation.

"Ahh," he could tell she was waking up. "No, it's not too late. I just dozed off on the couch. I think you should come over in the morning, okay, go with me and Buddy to see Dr. Barnes? 8 a.m.?" 

"I'll be there."

\--------

Jack knocked on Sara's door promptly at 7:59 the next morning.

"Come on in," he heard her voice from the kitchen. "It's open."

He walked through the familiar house, down the hallway and across the living room, back to the kitchen It was oddly familiar, yet, he felt out of place. He'd not been back here once in the three years since he'd moved out at her request. It was too silent, lacking the vitality it had held when… God, he expected to hear Charlie's voice calling out and his footsteps on the stairs, running to greet him. Every inch of this place was filled with memories, visions, recollections so vivid, a lump formed in his throat. He paused in the doorway, looking in at Sara, drinking in the sight of the woman he'd married. She was dressed in blue jeans that hugged her long legs and slim hips, and an old, soft faded sweater that showed her curves. He hair was longer than it had been the last time he'd seen her, and still blonde, he thought ruefully, unlike his own gone steely gray locks.

"Hi," he said, awkwardly, then stepped closer. When she didn't back away, he gave Sara a hug. "What's up?"

"Buddy's not doing well at all."

That was obvious, the big collie hadn't even gotten up to greet Jack. The dog lay curled up on the rug in the kitchen, in his favorite sun-warmed spot by the back door. When the man knelt down beside the animal, the dog raised his gray muzzle and rheumy eyes, thumping his tail on the floor in greeting, but making no effort to get to his feet. 'He's gotten old,' Jack thought sadly.

"I thought you'd want to go with me, when I take him to the vet," said Sara carefully. Jack turned and smiled, "Yes, thanks."

O'Neill bent down to the old dog, picking him up in his arms with unexpected ease, realizing that beneath the thick haircoat the old dog was thin and frail. Gently, he carried Buddy out to his truck, setting the dog carefully on the back seat. The dog whined, licking Jack's fingers as he stroked the soft fur. "It's okay, old fella," he said, ruffling the Buddy's ears. Sara climbed silently into the passenger seat, as Jack walked around to the driver’s side. 

Starting the truck, he backed carefully out of the driveway, and drove down to the vet clinic. 

They rode in silence, Sara observing her ex-husband out of the corner of her eye. He looked good, dressed in jeans and an oversized checked cotton shirt. There were more lines around his eyes, his face was more weathered, and the once brown hair had gone gray. But his eyes were still bottomless and dark, full of hidden depths. His long fingers, curled around the steering wheel, held her gaze. She’d always loved his hands, so strong and yet so gentle. Sara found it hard to imagine four years had passed since they’d been together.

Arriving at the clinic, Jack again picked up the old dog and carried him into the building. The receptionist pointed them into a cubicle, where Jack gently laid Buddy on a gleaming metal exam table.

Dr. Barnes was waiting and quickly conducted the short exam, his kindly face revealing the bad news even before he uttered the words. "You know there's nothing we can do for him? It's his age, these large breed dogs, they're short lived, you know."

Jack knew way too much about short lives. He couldn't even look at Sara as he felt the tears gather behind his eyes as memories flooded through him. He remembered Buddy as the squirming, wiggling puppy Charlie had chosen from the litter of fuzzy coated pups. He remembered the boy and the dog, growing up together. He remembered Buddy sleeping on Charlie's bed, following the boy everywhere. He remembered how it had given him some comfort, to know the big dog was there to protect and befriend his son, when he couldn't be.

He remembered how, after Charlie was gone, Buddy had roamed around the house, in and out of Charlie's empty room, whining, wondering, his look begging Jack to take him to Charlie. Jack remembered hugging the dog as he had wanted to hug his son one more time.

"He's had a good life," Sara said softly, breaking Jack's reverie, patting the dog's head. "I know it's time for him to go." Sara looked at Jack, seeking his okay, and he nodded, unable to say anything.

The veterinarian had been through these moments before, a family losing their pet. "You can stay with him, if you like. Once I give him the shot, he'll just go peacefully to sleep. He won't feel a thing."

They elected to stay, Jack cradling the dog's head as Dr. Barnes administered the fatal dose of tranquilizer.

"It's okay. He's waiting for you, Buddy," Jack whispered into the furry ear. As the dog's head became suddenly heavy in his hands, Jack O'Neill felt the tears form in the corner of his eyes, and forced himself to hold them in.

Stroking the collie’s silky hair one last time, he raised his eyes from the sight of the now quiet dog, Sara was staring at him, her expression unreadable. Silently, they left the office and walked out to his truck. Before he started the engine, she turned to him in fury. "How could you?"

He looked at her, not understanding, "What?" his voice was still raw.

"You bastard, you sorry son of a bitch. How could you cry over a dog when you never even cried over our son?" she shouted, her eyes scoring into him. "How could you?" covering her face with her hands and began to sob.

He stared at her, stunned, and then looked away, out through the windshield at the bright, sunny day, a day just like the day Charlie had died, a day it should have been raining and cold and dark. Jack looked over at Sara, his brain racing furiously to find the words to explain, but as always, they eluded him. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but savagely, she jerked away, sliding toward the far side of the truck cab. Gradually, as her sobs quieted, she squared her shoulders, not looking at him, and Jack knew that, like a hundred other times he'd failed to say what needed to be said, it was too late now, the moment over. They sat in uncomfortable silence for long minutes before he finally started the truck and drove her home in a silence as ice cold as the grave that held the shattered remnants of the love they'd shared.

<><><><><>

A week later, when the vet's office called, Jack drove to the clinic, picked up the small container of ashes, and went to Sara's house. He rang the door bell, and when she appeared at the window, there was no welcome in the look she gave him, but she did open the door.

He held out the container. "I thought you'd want to come with me," he said softly, "to the cemetery."

She studied him a moment, his somber face, his dark eyes, the gray streaked hair. The last couple of years hadn't been easy on him, either, she realized. "Okay, I'll get my coat."

Driving to the familiar spot, Jack wanted to break the silence but he couldn't. Once there, he parked, held the door open for Sara, and walked silently beside her to the grave. Kneeling, he used his knife to cut a small square of sod near the headstone, digging out the loamy earth. Then he opened the tin container and poured the ashes into the ground.

He couldn't say a word, his heart felt so barren and empty. He knew there was moisture in his eyes once again, remembering his boy and this dog, happy, romping together. God, Jack, don’t think about it. That time is gone, gone forever. Gone. Jack wanted to say something, to let his unbearable grief out somehow, but he didn’t know how, not even when her look of disbelief threatened to tear his heart apart. 

Why couldn't she understand?

'Because you never tell her, you've never told her, you just expected her to understand when you couldn't say the words,' Jack's inner voice told him. 'She needed to hear the words, she still needs to hear the words, you fool.'

His ex-wife’s angry tone interrupted the moment of introspection. "Jack, you are the biggest son of a bitch..."

"Sara, please," his voice was quiet. He turned to her, brushing a hand across his face, then slid his eyes to look away. 

A long moment of silence followed, while he steeled himself to say the words. "I cried for him so often, I just could never let the tears out, not where anyone but me could see them." Taking a deep breath, turned to her, "I wish it was me there in the ground, I'd give anything for it to be me instead of him. I'm sorry."

The words, once unleashed, came rushing out in a torrent that threatened to drown him as he knelt beside his son's grave looking up at the woman he had hurt so badly. "I know I wasn't there for you when you needed me, I was so wrapped up in my own guilt that I couldn't face you. You know I've never been any good with words," Jack waved his hands in the air, spreading them wide in supplication, "I couldn't say what I knew you needed to hear. It was all there, inside, but I couldn't..." 

Staring down at the barren ground that was his son's grave, he went on. "It's taken me a long time to learn to live with it, to talk about Charlie, to just say his name. God, it still hurts. I can't imagine how you live with it, because I don't know how I do. I screwed up our lives and I didn't know how to fix it, because there was no way to fix it. All my life, I was able to find a way to get what I wanted or needed, to fix things, to do the impossible, to make things right and then......then..." He looked at her again. "I couldn't understand how you could forgive me, because I could never forgive myself."

She was just standing there, hugging herself, saying nothing. In some small measure, then, he understood what he had put her through, when she needed to hear his voice and he couldn't speak to her. He needed to hear her voice, now, and he couldn't blame her for the silence. It was what he deserved.

Not daring to look over at her, he added, "I've never asked you for forgiveness, because I know I don't deserve it."

"I forgave you a long time ago, Jack, you know that," she said in a very small voice, still staring off into the distance.

"I know. But it doesn't change my guilt. Nothing will change that."

"No. But maybe we can get beyond it if we both try," she answered, raising her eyes to his face, reading the longing there, the pain and the hurt. She wished they could go back, go back to where they had once been, together, the three of them, even just the two of them, before Charlie. She could have lived with that more easily than with what had happened, never having had a child at all, then to have known what it was like, known the love and the joy and had it snatched so cruelly away. Not that she would ever trade her memories of Charlie, no. But, oh God, the hurt of it all.

"I never doubted that you loved him or me, Jack. I know it's not easy for you to talk about what you feel, I lived with you long enough to understand that about you. But I needed you, I needed you so badly, to reach out to me, to help me. And you didn't."

"I couldn't."

"You could have tried."

He said nothing for long moments. "I tried. I just, I just couldn't." The revelation. "Because I was afraid you'd turn away." There it was, said, aloud, at last. Stupid as it was, because in not saying it, in not risking it, he had made it come true. "And I was even more afraid that you wouldn't turn away. That you would forgive me. And I couldn't risk that, because I didn't deserve to be forgiven."

Jack stood, silent for so long Sara thought he was done speaking. 

His next words were mere whispers. "You were right to leave."

He heard only weariness in her voice when she answered. "Yes, I was." Searching carefully for her words, Sara went on. "Even then, it wasn't easy. I didn't want to lose you, too. But I was afraid I already had."

Jack could only nod, knowing she was right, knowing he'd never intended to come home from that first mission to Abydos. 

"And then, when you came back, I wasn't ready to face you. I was so angry and confused, and I knew that I couldn't handle your grief on top of my own. I wasn't ready to forgive you."

He was looking away from her again, out across the cemetery, to the looming hills, his voice still soft. "When I took that mission, the last one for General West, I wasn't going to come back, you know, I wasn't supposed to come back. It was a way out, a way to die with honor," he heard her gasp as she realized what he was telling her, "a way to end the pain and to pay for what I'd done. But I couldn't do it, I didn't do it. I found a way instead, to live, to save some other people, and I don't know how but I, found a little hope to go on? I came back, ready to try to find a way, for us, to go on." He looked at her questioningly, needing her to understand. "But it was too late. I don't blame you for not waiting. I don't blame you for giving up on me because I'd given up on myself."

She stared at him, this man who had been her tower of strength, this man she had loved so deeply and fiercely, the one man she had ever wanted in her life, the man she had lived and loved with, the one man she both loved and hated, needed and was terrified of needing; the man who had loved her more than anyone ever had, and who had hurt her more deeply than she could ever have imagined. Even after four years, the emotions he aroused were so intense, so confusing, they frightened her.

Sara took a deep, shuddering breath, and then his arms were wrapped around her in that familiar way she yearned for, and she remembered how much comfort he could bring her, how much strength and joy and love.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they stood at Charlie's grave, her tears dampening his shirt. She wished he would cry, that he would let some of the grief out, let her share in it. She knew that comforting him helped her to cope, just like she knew that he had a world of guilt and pain all walled up inside him, eating away at him. But she also knew that he was who he was, that he couldn’t open up and let the hurt show, not to anyone, not to her, because he still held onto that misguided notion that toughing it out was what a man did. Tough it out, no matter the price, like he’d done when he came home after all those months as a prisoner of the Iraqis. Tough it out, like he’d done after he’d nearly died in the parachute accident. Tough it out like he’d done after the missions where he’d lost friends. She knew all the emotions were there, locked inside him. And she knew him well enough to know he’d never really be able to expose them to the light of day.

A long time they stayed silent and unmoving. 

Finally, he took her home. Walking her to her door, he gave her a final hug. "Sara, I--" he didn't know what to say, he only knew he didn't want this moment to end, that he didn't want to leave, didn't want to lose this chance to make her part of his life again. "Look, how about dinner, Friday night?" He felt like a teenager asking for his first date.

She stood silent for so long he was sure she was going to say no, that she was thinking of a way to let him down gently. At last, she lifted her face to him and said softly, "Yes, Jack, I'd like that."

He kissed her chastely on the cheek then, and walked away back to his truck incredibly weary, yet strangely relieved from his confession), a little of the swagger back in his walk. Maybe they could make a fresh start.

<><><><>

Jack was in a hurry. They'd come back two hours late from P4R-777 and the briefing had run over an hour, and if he didn't really hurry, he'd never get there on time. He was sure he broke a world record for the quickest shower, then decided he needed a shave and considered what was he going to wear. God, should he stop at home for a change of clothes. Shit, he felt as nervous as a teenager going on his first date.

"You seem to be in a hurry," said Daniel, just now arriving in the locker room, giving him a studying look.

"Yeah." the Colonel answered absentmindedly, trying to concentrate on shaving.

"What, you've got a hot date?" O'Neill didn't answer and Jackson did a double take, then a big smile crossed his face. "You do!"

"I didn't say that."

"Didn't have to. Who is it? Someone I know? Hmm, well, it can't be Sam or Janet. Maybe that nurse over at the Academy Hospital, the one who kept giving you the eye when we were over there last week?"

Jack shot him a dirty look.

Daniel smiled. "The girl at the Seven-Eleven?"

"Girl?" Jack snorted. "She's old enough to be my mother."

"The new secretary in the security office up top, the one who always smiles at you…"

"She’s young enough to be my daughter."

"Your new neighbor then? The one with the convertible."

"Oh for cryin' out loud," O'Neill snapped in exasperation. "She's married."

"Then who?"

"None of your business." There was an edge to O'Neill's answer, and Jackson suddenly went silent.

"Sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to pry."

O'Neill set the razor down, looking over at his friend. "My -ex."

"Sara? Wow. That's great," Daniel said, and meant it.

"Yeah, well, it's just dinner." O'Neill straightened his shirt. "How does this look?"

Daniel eyed his friend, then walked over, took his towel and wiped something off the Colonel's chin. "You look better without this," he said, showing Jack the shaving cream smeared on the towel. Jackson raised on eyebrow, "Nervous, are you?"

"No. I'm fine."

Daniel nodded, grinning. "Okay, well, good luck."

"Thanks."

<><><><><>

In the car, he hummed all the way to her place, his fingers tapping out a rhythmic beat on the steering wheel. God, O'Neill you really are nervous, he scolded himself. You only hum when you're nervous, really, really nervous. Get it together. This is no big deal. You're not facing the Goa'uld or an army of Jaffa. It's Sara. Yeah, you're right, Jack, this is harder than facing the snakeboys and their minions of evil.

He rang her doorbell and she came to the door, grabbing her coat. "You are late, Jack."

Great start, O'Neill. "Sorry. Briefings ran late." Deciding to risk it, the Colonel leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look great," he told her, meaning it. She was dressed casually, as he had suggested, a multi-colored knee length skirt topped by a long cream colored sweater. They went to a restaurant he thought she would like, a quiet, simple little place. They ate Italian, making small talk, and when the meal was done, he suggested they go next door. The bar there was a little noisier, less intimate, but there was a live band scheduled to play.

While she took a break to the ladies room, he hiked up to the stage, slipped the guitar player a $20 and the title of a song. The musician nodded.

He got them a table, sat Sara down while he got drinks, and they sat a few minutes, listening to the band, and watching several couples dance.

"Nice place," she said.

"Very," he answered.

"So why are we here?"

He shrugged. "Something to do."

"What, drink and watch? Doesn't sound like you."

"So, let's dance," he said, and held his hand out to her. As he led her out on the dance floor, O'Neill nodded at the band. 

The band began to play, the singer opening with the words of a familiar slow ballad, "Oh my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch..."

Sara looked up at him. Unchained Melody, she'd adored that movie they used the song in, the one with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze as the ghost. She shook her head, Jack, her Jack, never could say what he felt, but he always knew the grand gesture to get his point across. "I love this song."

He smiled down at her. "Coincidence," he said, and wrapped his arms around her.

"I don't believe in coincidences, O'Neill," Sara whispered in his ear as she fitted herself comfortably into his embrace. 

Content in each other's arms, they swayed to the melody, shuffling across the small dance floor, her hands locked together behind his waist, his long arms wrapped around her back, pulling her close.

He wanted that song to go on forever.

They stayed a couple of hours, and danced the slow dances, sitting out the faster paced ones, sipping their drinks. Slowly the place began emptying out, it had gotten that late. Finally, the two of them walked out to his car, his hand finding hers, his long fingers twining around hers in the familiar way they had done so often.

At her door, he bent to kiss her good night and she offered her lips. He let a little of his hunger leak into the kiss, and she felt it and responded. After a moment, she backed away. "Good night, Jack."

"Good night." Was that disappointment she detected in his voice? 

"I had a good time. Thanks."

Ah, she was giving him the brush-off, he thought, staring down at his shoes. She'd tried it, one date and he'd messed up again...

"We could do this again if you'd like."

He looked up, grinned, pleased. "Yes."

She didn't miss that he was whistling as he went down the walk.

*********

Jack called her the next day. "Ah, hi, look, could I stop by later? Maybe we could, ah, I don't know, go for a walk?"

He sounds like a kid, she thought, and remembered their first meeting, when Jack O'Neill was the same strange combination of bold and brassy yet so shy, his body language saying yeah, I'm in control and his eyes looking like he was terrified she'd turn down his request to dance. "Sure."

"Okay. See ya in a bit."

When Jack knocked on Sara's door an hour later, he had a surprise for her. When she got to the door, O’Neill was standing on the porch holding a dog.

"Oh for cryin' out loud, Jack. What is this?" she demanded.

"Ah, it's a dog. He, uh, followed me home."

"Yeah, right."

Quietly he said, "I thought, without Buddy, you might be lonesome." He smiled that shy, little boy smile, the one that had always melted her heart. "He needs a home."

Him or you, Sara thought suddenly.

"Everybody ought to have a dog." Jack smiled again. "He'll be good company. Great protection."

"Sure, that little thing?"

"I don't think he'll always be so little," O'Neill answered, holding up one of the squirming dog's large paws. "Not if he grows into these feet."

"Oh, great, you brought me a puppy? Couldn't you have just brought me flowers?"

"I'll help you train him." Was it a plea or a promise, she wondered?

Finally, she pushed open the screen door. "Okay, come on, bring him in."

The dog wiggled out of Jack's arms and headed for the kitchen. They followed him, and found the over-sized pup tugging at the old blanket by the back door, the one Buddy used to sleep on. "I hadn't put it away yet. Couldn't..." she stopped, thinking of the room upstairs, where after four years she still hadn't moved Charlie's things. Couldn't do that either.

He saw the sudden sadness on her face and knew it was mirrored on his own. God, maybe it was still too much for her, maybe she, they, would never be able to be together without those sad memories intruding on everything. This wouldn't work, if that's how it was.

She shook her head, smiling at him, grabbed the dog, searching through a box behind the desk, and found an old bone. The pup pounced on it, flopped itself comfortably on the floor, and began gnawing on the treat.

"I think he likes it here," said the gray haired man with a grin.

"Yeah, well, I guess I could give it a try." She looked over at the creature. Taking in another stray, Sara? 

"He won't be a problem. I promise. I'll be glad to dog-sit. We could work out a joint custody arrangement or something," he said oddly. "He was at the pound. He just needs somebody to give him a chance."

Who was he talking about now, she thought. The dog, or himself?

"Does he have a name?"

"No, I don't think so. The shelter said he was dropped off by someone." Jack looked at the dog. "I don't know. Think he looks like a Pete? Here Pete." he called, but the dog ignored him.

"More like a Max."

"Geez, Sara, half the dogs in North America are named Max. Be original. How about Otis? Bill? George, here George." The dog didn't respond. Good thing, thought O'Neill, grinning suddenly. I'd have a tough time explaining that one to the General.

"What's that smile about?" asked Sara.

So he told her about his CO. "He's a good guy, this General Hammond?"

"Yes. He's a good man, from Texas. Kinda short, kinda chunky, really bald. Decent guy. Fair."

"That's high praise, coming from you."

"Just the truth," said Jack with a shrug.

"Patient and a good sense of humor..."

He looked surprised. "Have you met him?"

"No but if he puts up with you..." she laughed.

O'Neill grinned, nodded. "You'd like him," he added, knowing Hammond would like Sara. too. If they ever got the chance to meet.

"So, the dog still doesn't have a name. And I agree, not George. How about Buster? Willie? Jake? Tucker? Tiger?"

"Riley," said Jack, and the dog pricked up his ears and looked at him. "Riley, that your name, boy?" The dog jumped up, practically climbing into Jack's lap. "That's it, Riley he is," he said, ruffling the dog's ears. God, he missed having a dog. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack called Sara a couple of times during the week, checking on Riley was his excuse. And she agreed to have dinner with him, again, on Friday night. Good thing it was a quiet week at the SGC, nothing off-world for SG-1, just lots of paper work, mission assessments on recent assignments for SG-2 and SG-3, and reviewing tapes and data looking for SG-1's next mission. Friday came none too soon.

Jack picked a different restaurant for another quiet dinner, and afterwards they took Riley for a long walk in the park. While the pup ran and played, they walked hand in hand. As he took her back to the house, he suddenly knew there was something he wanted to do.

"Ah, look, let's put Riley in and then I want you to come with me, to my place, I want to show you something, a painting, I just got it back from the framers, today."

"Come on over and look at your paintings? Jack, that's the oldest line in the book. You're pushing it," Sara teased.

"No, really. I promise. It's no line. I'll keep all my clothes on, okay? Even my coat."

She laughed. God, it felt good to laugh with him. Besides, she was curious about his house, that mysterious bachelor lair he inhabited. So they put the dog in her kitchen and she rode quietly with him to the split level house he occupied.

He took her into the living room, holding his hands over her eyes, gently settling her on the couch. 

"Okay," he said, pulling his hands away.

She was looking across the room at a painting, a child's painting of a garden, vivid reds and blues and greens. It was the brightest, most colorful thing in the whole house. "This is what you brought me here to see?" she asked incredulously. It was definitely not the kind of thing she imagined Jack would hang in his house.

He looked disappointed. "It's not just the painting." He settled into the couch next to her, his face earnest. "See, this little girl, Merrin, she's only 11. I met her on... on a mission, and she well, where she's from, the kids have a tough life. They've never had a chance to just be kids, to have fun. I took her to school. Imagine Sara, 11 years old and she'd never been to school, not that she wasn't smart. I showed her something, something new, how to be a kid. It mattered, Sara, what I did made a difference. Maybe only one afternoon in the life of one little kid, but it mattered. You see? And when I look at that, all the good things come to mind." 

She did see. Sara was seeing a side of Jack she always knew was there, but one she'd never heard him express before.

"Your job, now, it's good isn't it?"

"Yes." Simple answer, but from him it meant a lot.

There was more to it than just the fact that for once he liked his CO. "I can tell."

He raised on eyebrow, questioningly.

"You're different, more, umm not content, but settled and it shows."

"It's good work. Important, and helps people. Yeah, sometimes it gets nasty, but," he waved at the picture. "Things like that, they make up for the rest."

She shivered. "I'm glad you aren't doing what you did before, for General West. Those missions, they tore you up, Jack. I hated it when you left, not just because you were gone and I worried about you, but because I dreaded you coming home, knowing what you would be like, withdrawn and depressed, exhausted but unable to sleep or nightmares when you finally did. Sometimes you were wound so tight I thought you would fly apart."

"I won't say I don't still have a few of those nightmares," he said quietly, not adding there were a few more recent ones added on, like Hathor and that snake, he thought with shiver. "And I won't try to tell you that what I do now isn't just as dangerous, because it is."

"I know, you like that part of it." He turned a surprised glance to her. "Oh, I know you well, Jack O'Neill, you like a good fight, that adrenaline rush, the action. It's part of you. It's why you couldn't stay retired, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Unfinished business."

She looked over to the mantle full of honors awards and medals, which had always filled her with such pride in him, and noted a few new ones for the collection. "The Air Medal. Wow."

He shrugged, but she saw the appreciation in his eyes. "I work with some good people. They earned it."

"Right." Sara had learned a good many things while married to Jack O'Neill. Sarcasm was one and she packed a mouthful into that one word. Jack's eyes twinkled in response. "And you did nothing, Jack, I'm sure, stood back and let them. Yeah, you bet. Were those the people I met at the hospital?"

"Yes. My team. And my friends."

"I'd like to meet them."

He seemed pleased. "I can arrange that."

They sat silent for a few minutes.

"There's not a picture of him," Sara said, looking around the room.

There was silence and then Jack answered quietly. "Not out here. Up there," Jack nodded toward the stairs beyond which she presumed his bedroom was located. "Here, then I'd have to explain," he said simply

She understood all too well. There’d been a time she’d kept Charlie’s picture on her desk at work, but the well meaning 

\---------

The phone was ringing.

Jack dragged an eye open, peering out from under the covers to glare, bleary eyed, at the clock. Was that 9:30 a.m.? Already.

And what the hell was that annoying trilling noise?

The phone.

Damn.

He reached over, knocked the phone off the bedside table, cursing as he fumbled to find it on the floor.

"Hello," he rasped.

"Jack?"

Oh, shit, it was Sara. He was supposed to take her out to dinner. Last night,. Crap...

"Jack?"

"Damn. Sara. I'm sorry. Work," he started.

"You couldn't call?" she sounded angry.

He couldn't blame her. "I was off-.... off on assignment. Got in late. Really late."

Worry quickly replaced her anger, as it so often had in the past. "You're okay?"

"Fine."

"Awfully late for you to be in bed," she said, concerned.

"Didn't get home 'til," he waved a hand, then realized she couldn't see the gesture, "til late."

There was momentary silence from the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry I woke you then."

"Ssss okay. Kind of nice to have you wake me up," he said without thinking.

"Look, why don't you sleep in and Riley and I can come over later? Take him for a walk?"

"Sounds great. Noonish?"

"Noonish," she said softly.

He hung up the phone, then pushed himself to a sitting position with a groan. Walk. Damn, he didn't think he could get himself in shape to walk in a week, much less a couple of hours. His damn knee, he'd gotten thwacked by some idiot Jaffa wanna-be, who'd added a crack to his kidneys that he knew had left bruises. Only some fast talking insistence that he was fine had gotten him out of the infirmary last night. In fact, the real reason was that it was Dr. Warner on duty, not Fraiser. He couldn't have gotten his not so little white lie past Fraiser. She knew him too well. Warner believed him.

Scrubbing a hand through his unruly salt and pepper hair, Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at the flash of pain in his knee. Heat would help. Hot shower. Oh yeah.

By noon, Jack was ambulatory and, he thought, hiding the limp pretty damn well. 

Sara arrived on time, stepping up the walk, Riley following on a leash. Jack answered the doorbell and gazed out at her, drinking in the sight of her in old worn jeans and a little cotton shirt that hugged her form. The breeze ruffled her hair. She looked real and right, standing there in his doorway.

"What are you staring at?"

He shrugged. "You."

"What, I've got oatmeal on my chin or something?"

"No. You look... perfect."

"Right."

"You do. To me."

*********

They walked for blocks, had coffee and a sandwich at a little outdoor cafe', then started back across the park, the pup running ahead with youthful abandon, then racing back to check on them before straying off to explore.

They were almost back to his house when the first cold, fat raindrop hit him on the shoulder. Jack looked up. "Uh oh," he pointed upward, and Sara looked up at the gathering dark gray clouds. "Riley!" Jack whistled up the pup and taking Sara's hand, began walking briskly toward his house.

They were still a 100 yards from his front door when the wind kicked up, thunder cracked in the distance, and the drizzle metamorphed into a drenching downpour. Running for the door, Jack trying to hide his limp, they got under the shelter of the overhang to his front door, both with wet clothes and plastered down hair, chilled by the sudden drop in temperature brought by the rain.

He unlocked the door quickly, the wet dog sneaking in past them, shaking himself, splattering raindrops in the hallway.

"You're wet!" Sara laughed.

"You, too," he grinned back at her. "Come on."

Heading through the kitchen to the laundry room in back, he found an old, soft, oversized denim shirt, handing it to her. "You can wear this."

She reached out to take the cloth, holding it a moment before looking up at him, remembering how she used to wear his shirts.

"Just while I dry yours," he explained.

She nodded, heading for the bathroom, sliding out of the soaking t-shirt and jeans. His shirt felt soft and comfortable on her skin. She rolled up the too long sleeves, then buried her nose in the oft-washed denim. Even clean, the shirt carried his scent, the familiar, comforting smell of after shave, sweat and the leather jackets he always wore. Her breath caught in her throat as she inhaled the comforting scent, remembering...

Stop, Sara. Yeah, there were good times, but he wasn't there when you needed him. He was never there when you needed him. It's Jack you're thinking about. You know better.

Yes, she knew better, but she couldn't stop the good memories any more than she could stop the bad ones.

It had been a mistake coming here, seeing him again, spending time with him, letting herself get comfortable with him. How big of a fool was she?

His soft, worried voice startled her. "Sara, you okay in there?" His knuckles rasped softly on the door.

"Fine," she said, hastily fastening the last buttons on the shirt, so long it hung nearly to her knees. He still liked the comfort of oversized shirts, she thought as she opened the door.

He stood in the hallway, wearing black sweats and an old sweatshirt, the dark material setting off the silver in his hair. Backlit from the light at the end of the hallway, he looked so, so... 

He reached out a hand, taking her damp shirt and jeans, adding them to the stack of his own wet clothes he was already carrying. "I'll put these in the dryer," he said. "It'll just take a minute."

Jack disappeared down the hallway for a few moments, then she heard the rattle of the dryer starting. Stepping back into the kitchen, he gave her a small smile. "Want some coffee? It'll warm you up."

"Sure," she said self-consciously, wrapping her arms around her self as she sat down at the small table. 

She watched him pour coffee into the filter, add water to the pot, and switch the machine on, his actions direct and efficient as always. It felt so odd to be here in his kitchen.

Finished, Jack turned back toward her, tilting his head to stare. "What are you looking at?"

"You," she said. "Where'd you ever learn to be so... domestic?"

He shrugged, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I didn't have much choice." he said so softly she could barely make out the words.

"Jack..."

He looked up quickly, changing the subject. "So, how about I start a fire? Warm it up in here a bit?" 

She recognized his need to be busy and nodded, following him into the cozy family room. Curled up on the sofa, pulling her legs up under herself, she watched him. Outside the wall of windows, she could see the storm still raging, wind whipping the trees, darkening the sky, rain beating against the windows in heavy sheets. The house seemed like an island, alone and cut off from the world, leaving just the two of them.

Sara studied him as he started the fire, watched Jack's long, slender crooked fingers move surely to their task, remembered what the touch of those hands could do to her.

Reaching over to the bin beside the fireplace, Jack picked up several small logs, setting them in place on the grate. "Ow!" he jumped up, sticking his index finger into his mouth.

"Jack!" Sara was on her feet.

He turned toward her with a sheepish grin. "Just a sliver."

"Let me see." She walked over to him, reaching up and pulling his hand down to look at it. Bending close to examine it, she frowned as she turned his hand to catch a better glimpse. Wetting her finger, she was able to grasp the end of the small bit of wood, and pull it out.

"Ouch!" he said, as blood welled, both of them moving at once, foreheads bumping.

Face to face, their gazes met, bare inches apart.

For long moments, neither one moved.

He inhaled her scent, her perfume, her shampoo, her damp hair.

Jack didn't think, didn't consider what he was doing or why, he just knew it felt right. His hand reached out, touching her jaw, and she leaned into his palm with a contented sigh, her eyes drifting shut, savoring his touch.

And then he realized her hands weren't still, either, they were running along his ribs, finding the edge of his sweatshirt, lifting. Her touch was electric, sizzling, as her hands roamed across his chest.

His long fingers cupped her chin and he reached down and brushed his lips across hers. There was no response, and he faltered, but slipped one hand behind her head, into her hair, pulling her head forward as he pressed his lips against hers.

She responded eagerly this time, leaning toward him, her hands sliding across his ribs as her mouth responded to his.

Sara was kissing him now, her hands sliding up and across his chest, then down to brush across the straining fabric of his sweats.

He was nibbling her neck, and then his hands were fumbling at the buttons of her shirt, sliding up under the soft fabric.

She was moaning into his neck. "Jack," she whispered... "Jack," her voice insistent.

He groaned, pulling back. God, she couldn't.... not now...

She was looking at him, her face flushed, her eyes heavy lidded. "Jack, not here..."

He didn't need anything more from her. Slipping his hand into hers, he led her up the stairs, down the dark hallway and into his dim bedroom. A bit of gray, storm darkened sky slipped between the drawn drapes, but otherwise the room was in darkness. 

She stopped just inside the door, suddenly frightened. Did she want to do this? Did she want to get involved with him again? Her head said no, but her pounding heart wasn't listening.

And then Jack turned to her, that look she'd never been able to say no to, the dark eyes so full of need. She knew what comfort those strong arms could grant her, knew what pleasure his strong, slender body could gift her with; yes, she knew the hurt he could give her, too, how he could leave her own inner needs denied, but she was no longer thinking only with her rational mind. 

She needed him. She'd always needed him. Even when she'd hated him, she'd needed him.

And he'd needed her, even when he couldn't say the words, when he could only stand there mutely looking at her, numb and overwhelmed with pain.

A pain she knew, knew too well and needed to share; a deep buried grief she wanted to lift from him as she knew they could only carry together.

Such a strong man, to be so needy. Most people never saw this side of him, most people never received the gift of his trust, never saw the depth and the fragility of his strong heart. They saw the brave man, the warrior, the soldier; they didn't see the gentle man, the man who felt too deeply, who turned his anger in on himself, who needed a hand to lift him out of the darkness and back into the light. 

She stepped into his embrace. Sliding her hands along his ribs, she pushed the shirt over his head, down the long arms. Her hands lingered on the new scars, a sob catching in her throat. God, what had he been through these last years? What had he been doing to put marks like these on his body? She reached up to kiss the scar on his chest, the stiff gray hair on his chest tickling her face.

Lost in each other, they sank down on the bed together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack lay beside her, one arm still wrapped across her chest, his face buried in the sweet scent of her hair. He could have stayed like that forever. God, how often had he dreamed of this, how many long lonely nights in this bed, aching for her caresses, her touch, his body and hers melded into one; how many cold showers, long empty nights in front of the TV, how many dreams from which he had awakened to the rude reality of an empty bed and an empty heart?

He wanted to say the words, had them there on the tip of his tongue, and cursed himself for his inability to say them, to reveal himself. What was wrong with him, that he couldn't tell her? That he couldn't be what she needed? That he couldn't do this simple thing for the woman he had always loved, still loved, would always love? Smart ass, smart mouth, screw up, because he couldn't do the most important thing, the thing she deserved and needed. God, what a failure. People thought he was brave, the Air Force gave him medals. Some hero he was, couldn't even tell his wife, ex-wife, that he loved her and needed her and couldn't bear to live without her. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack slept, sprawled across the bed like an oversized child. It was one of those rare times when she could study him, when he slept, the only time he was still enough for her to look at so closely. The silver hair, mussed, still damp from the exertion of their lovemaking, ringed his face, falling boyishly across his forehead. The little lines by his eyes, squint lines, not laugh lines. She knew him well enough to know he'd not laughed much the last few years. He used to laugh, God, he had such a good laugh; he laughed with you, not at you. The wide mouth, lips parted slightly in sleep as he snored softly, a generous mouth; she knew all too often it carried a frown, not the smile that dazzled.

That little scar in his eyebrow, not a blemish, but somehow, it made his face even more handsome, imperfection somehow making the rugged face perfect.

How had he gotten that bruise? she wondered, seeing the dark and ugly mark on his back. He wouldn’t tell her, just like he’d never told her about his missions before. Damn, he wasn’t a kid anymore. What was he still doing, doing physically dangerous things like this? Getting hurt like this? Was it because of her, some need to prove he could still be the macho soldier? No, truth was, she knew him better than that. Jack O’Neill was who he was and would always be who he was, and he needed the adrenaline rush of whatever dangerous things the USAF was still letting him do the way most men needed air to breathe.

She hadn’t missed that limp either, the soreness in his knee that robbed him of the fluid, graceful movements she was used to seeing. Sara stared at the collection of scars, old and new, that marred his tanned flesh, that blemished the strong, lean body. He was so strong, on the outside, and so fragile on the inside.

She still loved him, she would always love him, a part of her was his forever, she'd always known that, even when... even when he'd let her down, even now, when she felt ripped in two, her heart telling her to love him, her head reminding her that he'd never give her what she needed, that so matter how hard she tried, no matter how often she said it, it still wasn't true. She tried to forgive him, she tried to look at him and see him, see the reality of him, but being with him... Oh God, she couldn't forget that look on his face, the moment that gunshot ended all that was good in their lives, his stoic, stone face during the funeral, his despair when he sat alone in Charlie’s room, day after day, the gun in his hand. 

Charlie's ghost still stood between them. 

Suddenly, she couldn't breath. Gasping for air, Sara sobbed, rolled over, rolled away from him, and her eye fell on the dresser. She was looking at Charlie's picture, Charlie and Jack side by side, in their hockey gear. She began to shake with the force of her grief. Five years, and things like this, times like this, being here with him, brought it all back. Damn it. She thought she'd made her peace with what had happened, grieved and found a measure of acceptance, enough to go on to a new life.

She wrapped herself in the blanket, curling up on her side, facing away from him, sobbing.

As much as she still loved him, she knew Jack O'Neill could destroy her, even when she knew that he also held the power to save her. 

\----------

Her sobs woke him from his sleep, confused for a moment before remembering that it wasn't a dream, it was real, Sara was here in his bed with him, and they’d just...

She was crying.

God, why did he do that to her? What had he done now?

Gently, he put his hand on her shoulder. "Sara?"

She flinched, curling tighter into the blanket.

"Sara?"

She turned to look over her shoulder at him. The look on her face tore his heart apart all over again. He'd done this to her, he'd destroyed her happiness, and even after all this time, when he wanted to comfort her, when he wanted to give her all of himself, or at least all that he was capable of giving, all he could do was hurt her.

Sara looked into his eyes, into the depth of those to die for eyes, eyes that had once glittered brightly with life, and now looked old and defeated, and hurt, hurt so deeply nothing and no one could ever remove the pain.

"Sara?"

She turned away, brushed his hand off her shoulder, buried her face in her hands. "This was a mistake," she whispered.

He couldn't breathe. God, he'd wanted this so much, thought this could be a new start, thought maybe together they could regain a part of what they'd lost. Reeling, he slipped out of the bed, grabbed his sweat pants and jerked them on, fleeing the room.

The house was dark but he didn't pause to turn on any lights. He fled, down the stairs, out the door and onto the deck, heedless of the cold puddles against his bare feet, needing the air and the sky. He gripped the rain damp wood of the railing until his hands cramped, until his fingers went numb, drawing in each painful breath until he thought his heart would burst.

At last, he slumped down to sit on the steps, letting his head drop into his hands. 

He should have known better than to start seeing her again, to dream that what they'd once had could be rekindled. You can't go back. He knew that, he'd always known that. You can't go back, you can only go forward, and keep on making the same goddamn freaking mistakes, hurting the people you love over and over again. Wreck your own life, hey, that's life. Shit happens. You screw up, you pay the price. But he'd made her pay, too, he'd ruined her life. He deserved to feel like this, but she... God, she shouldn't be up there, crying in his bed because he was such a hopeless jerk.

Jack knew there were things he was good at, he was good at his job; he was good at surviving; he was good at being an Air Force officer; he was generally a competent human being. Except when it came to her. His love for her had doomed her, brought her to this, drawn her back into his life where he'd only succeeded in making her miserable again.

He sat on the steps of the deck, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around his knees, as the evening light faded, and a chill wind blew off the damp grass. He shivered, but he couldn't go back in, couldn’t face her, and all he’d done to hurt her. Jack didn't know what time it was when he finally heard the door open behind him, and Sara’s soft footsteps coming across the deck toward him.

"You'll freeze out here," she said, slipping a jacket around his shoulders. She had claimed her clothes from the dryer, he observed as she came and sat beside him on the steps. She didn’t miss the way he pulled away from her so that his shoulder wouldn't touch hers.

Sara tried to organize her thoughts, because there were things she needed to say to him, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, and she knew she would. "Jack."

He was staring out across the lawn, not looking at her at all, his longer fingers wrapping and rewrapping themselves into knots.

Sara reached out and grasped his hands. He stared down at them, her soft hands atop his callused, scarred and bent ones.

"Jack..." she started again.

"I'm sorry." 

"I'm not." 

His head jerked up to look at her face. "Then why?" his hand waved questioningly in the air between them.

"Why was I crying?" she shrugged. "I was thinking about us. About Charlie. About the way it used to be. About all we lost. About..." she stopped, trying to figure out how to explain to him what she didn't understand herself. "Jack..."

"I want you to stay." The words came out a mere whisper, stilted, odd, taking him by surprise with their frankness.

This time, it was Sara who looked away, across the dark expanse of lawn, out to where the pup played with a stick, tossing it and pouncing on it with youthful abandon. "Jack, I still care about you. A part of me still loves you. And a part of me, just can't forget. I don't know what I want. I don't have any answers. There are times I never want to see you again, times I regret ever meeting you, and then I remember how good things were when they were good, and I want that back. And I know I-we can't have it back, I know it's just a memory, I know we can't ever be what we were, and I don't know if I can live with only part of what we had. I don't know if what’s left is enough. If it’s worth the pain. I don't know that I can ever be with you without feeling what I felt today, without all the hurt coming right back to the surface." 

She paused, twisting her fingers through his. "I'm just afraid that together, all we do is magnify the pain. I can’t go through that again. I can’t. Not for anyone. Not even for you."

She reached over and took hold of his chin, turning his face to hers, staring into the depths of his brown eyes. "I don't regret what we did today. I missed that, the way you make me feel, the way we can comfort each other. But I'm not ready for more. I'm not even sure I was ready for what happened today. I think we’re going too fast."

She saw his face fall, saw the effort it took him not to crumble, the little tremble in his lip that betrayed the emotion he walled up inside. "Jack, part of me wants so much to be with you, wants to stay, but I'm afraid of losing myself in you again. You overwhelm me. I worked so hard to find myself, to build a life, to find some peace and comfort. No matter how much I love you, I can't let you destroy that."

She was afraid she'd drown in the depth of his eyes, in the raw need and the naked pain she saw there. "Jack, you are a good man. You've never been easy to live with, or understand. You never made my life simple." Sara sighed. "I don't know what I want, I just don't know. I don't want to drag this out, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm not ready, I don't think I was ready for what happened. I want to take a step back."

He looked away and nodded.

She took his chin again. "I'm not saying I don't want to spend time with you. I'm asking you to be patient with me, let me figure out what I need. Take things slow."

"Whatever you need," he said, his voice so soft she wasn't sure she heard him.

"Right now, I need you to hold me." She leaned against him, feeling his strength, placing her head against his chest, hearing the steady rhythm of his strong heart. His arm wrapped around her shoulder, his chin resting atop her head, reveling in the safety she felt in his arms.

He could take it slow.

He could wait for her.

He could let her lead the way.

As long as it took.

As long as there was a hope for the future, he knew his hopes resided with her. 

**The End**

  


* * *

  


> Author's note: Okay, I always wanted to put them back together. Kick me for being a romantic fool when it comes to Jack and Sara, but from the way Jack speaks about her in Solitudes, Brief Candle and Cold Lazerus, this was a man who loved his wife, and we all know Jack leaves no one behind. I don't believe the series will ever give them another chance, so here's my take.
> 
> This is the PG-13 version; the NC-17 version (for sexual activity, adult language) is posted on my website, [O'Neill's House](http://astele.co.uk/StargateFan/Chapter/Details/www.geocities.com/sg1_oneills_house)

* * *

>   
> © February, 2003 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp.  
> The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters  
> who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names,   
> titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and   
> solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.   
> 

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